I still remember the way the sun felt on my skin when I was small.
The warmth of my father's hand in mine, the sound of my mother's laughter... it was a world full of color.
But that world was no longer mine.
Meher blinked fast, trying to push the sting back behind her lashes.
The car slowed as the gates opened with a quiet groan of iron.
The Singhania mansion stood tall and unsmiling, its cream colored walls seemed too pristine, like they'd been scrubbed clean of any history that included her.
She held her breath as the car stopped.
The driver opened the door, but Meher didn't move. Her hand hovered over the door handle, fingers trembling ever so lightly. She didn't want to get out, not yet.
The house ahead didn't look like shelter. It looked more like a courtroom to her.
"You're here, miss,"
The driver said, politely avoiding her eyes.
With effort, Meher stepped out.
Her boots crunched against the gravel. The wind was warm, but her palms felt cold. She wrapped her arms around herself instinctively, already feeling the ache of being out of place.
The front door opened before she reached it.
Her mother stood there, Sarita Singhania, perfectly put together in a pastel saree... her hair drawn back in a neat bun, her expression unalarming.
"You've grown,"
She said, like it was an inconvenience now.
"You... look the same."
Meher gave a small nod.
Sarita's lips pressed into something like a smile, but didn't quite make it there.
"Come in."
She welcomed.
Inside, the chandelier overhead sparkled, catching the light like nothing had changed in the eighteen years she wasn't here.
The walls, the scent of old sandalwood and floor polish, all looked glazing. Like a beautiful world settled in a corner.
A maid appeared to take her luggage. No one else.
Meher's round eyes scanned the hall... no welcome, no hugs, no warm voices from distant rooms. Just polished marble and too many shadows.
From the stairs, a voice floated down.
"Is that her?"
Tara pointed at Meher, her eyes wide... perhaps with anticipation.
She descended crossing two stairs with her enthusiastic steps.
She was dressed in soft cotton and bare-faced, she looked like a painting someone had tried to scrub clean.
Tara stopped a few steps above Meher, and for a second, their eyes met.
Two versions of the same girl... one raised on velvet, the other on sharp glass shards.
"Umm...Hi,"
Tara said, voice even.
"Hi,"
Meher replied, unsure if she was relieved or insulted by the neutrality.
Before more could pass, Sarita turned briskly.
"Come, your father's waiting."
Meher stiffened. Her throat tightened at the mention.
"Now?"
She asked.
"Yes,"
Sarita replied, already walking ahead.
Meher followed, each step echoing louder than it should've.
She could feel her chest getting tighter, her breaths shorter. Her fingers kept curling into her salwaar sleeves. She kept walking.
The oak study door stood tall and intimidating. Sarita opened it after a heavy sigh left her lips.
Raghav Singhania didn't rise from behind his desk. His fingers tapped rhythmically against the armrest of his chair. His salt-and-pepper hair was neatly combed, his sharp eyes lifting only briefly when she entered.
Sarita shut the door behind them.
"Well,"
He said, his voice like ice cracking.
"You've returned."
Meher didn't know what to say.
"I—"
Her throat was dry.
"You weren't supposed to."
He said and Sarita flinched at that.
Meher stayed still. Her eyes flicked to her mother, but Sarita didn't meet them.
"She has nowhere else to go... you know that"
Sarita said, soft but strained.
Raghav leaned forward.
"Then let her stay. But she'll stay where she belongs, in one corner. Don't expect special treatment. You're not owed anything here, Meher."
The words landed like glass breaking in slow motion. Meher felt her spine straighten, but her hands were clenched at her sides.
"Alright,"
She said, barely above a whisper.
Raghav's eyes met hers in form of a long, cold stare. Then he waved his hand, dismissive.
"Then stay invisible. That's best for everyone."
Meher didn't move at first.
She stood there, the silence stretching. Her feet felt rooted to the carpet, her breath trapped in her chest. Her father's eyes had already returned to his papers, as though she were nothing more than an interruption to be filed away.
Sarita placed a hand on Meher's back... light and almost hesitant.
"Come,"
She said gently.
"I'll show you to your room."
Meher followed her out, not looking back. She was afraid if she did, she'd scream.
Or cry.
Or both?
The door clicked shut behind them.
They walked in silence down the hallway, past framed photos Meher wasn't in... birthdays, vacations, business awards, smiling faces. A whole life had been lived here without her, and the house wore it like pride.
She tried not to look too hard.
When they reached the farthest end of the upstairs corridor, Sarita stopped before a door. She turned the knob and pushed it open.
It was a guest room, smaller than the others, stripped of any personality. A bed, a dresser, crisp white sheets. The windows were closed. No curtains. The air inside was stale.
"I thought you'd be comfortable here,"
Sarita said softly.
"It's quiet. You like quiet, don't you?"
She asked.
Quiet? Like a punishment in disguise.
Meher stepped inside slowly. Her fingers brushed the edge of the bed frame. The room looked like it was waiting for her to apologize just for standing in it.
Behind her, Sarita lingered in the doorway.
"I tried,"
She said, almost talking to herself.
"He didn't want this. But your grandmother made him promise. You know how he is. He doesn't forget."
Meher turned away, listening to her mother speak, eyes already welling.
"So, he's just keeping the promise... This is what keeping a promise looks like?"
She asked, voice breaking.
"A room at the end of a hallway and a father who can't stand the sight of me?"
She gritted her teeth suppressing a hitched breath.
Sarita flinched, just a little.
"I know it's not fair,"
She said.
"But this... this is what I could manage."
She explained.
Meher shook her head. Her hands were trembling again.
"You didn't even write to me. Not once."
Sarita's face crumpled just for a second before smoothing over again, years of repression worn like armor.
"We weren't in a state to."
Meher turned further away, her throat burning. She didn't want to hear excuses. Not now.
Sarita stepped forward and touched her shoulder, it wasn't affection, not really. It was guilt with no place to go.
"Rest,"
She said.
"You must be tired, we'll talk later."
The door closed softly behind her.
As soon as Meher was alone, she sat on the bed and let the tears fall. No dramatic sobs, no sound, just endless tears she'd learned to shed without notice. Her hands clutched the sides of the mattress, grounding herself.
She pressed her forehead to her knees, breathing slowly, deliberately, the way her grandmother had once taught her.
This was fine. She could do this. She had survived worse.
Outside, footsteps moved faintly along the floorboards. Tara's voice drifted up from somewhere downstairs, casual and unbothered, as if her sister hadn't just been told to stay invisible.
Meher wiped her face, then lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
The silence in this house wasn't empty anymore... it was loud with everything she didn't want to notice.
The door suddenly burst open without warning.
Meher jolted upright in bed, heart leaping straight into her throat.
"There you are!"
Tara's voice filled the room like sunlight through blinds... bright and impossible to ignore.
"God, were you actually napping? How do you nap in the middle of your own dramatic homecoming after YEARS?"
She crossed the room in three long strides, ignoring Meher's bewildered blink and the obvious puffiness around her eyes. She was in too much of a hurry to notice anything else.
"Get up, you're well dressed already, come on,"
Tara said, grabbing Meher's wrist with casual urgency.
"They're dying to meet you. I've already hyped you up to them so much, you can't make me look bad now."
She said in one go.
"Wait... who?"
Meher asked, but she was already being pulled off the bed, her foot sliding slightly on the rug.
"They!"
Tara said with a dramatic flair.
"The Roys. My second family. Honestly, you'll love them. Or you won't. But they'll love you anyway, so it evens out."
Meher tried to tug her hand back while tara laughed chuckled to herself, still talking.
"Tara, I don't—"
"Oh my God, don't start the introvert spiral,"
Tara cut in, laughing lightly.
"You're wearing clothes, your hair is fine, and you look like a lost bird, which is apparently very in right now."
And before Meher could form another protest, Tara was already dragging her out of the room and toward the stairs.
The hallway blurred around her. Her feet struggled to keep up, heart thudding, skin prickling with the uncomfortable thrill of something about to happen.
The stairs appeared very near.
"Tara, wait—!"
Too late.
She nearly tripped, her foot stumbling slightly, but Tara's grip tightened just in time, steadying her.
"Okay, maybe don't die on your first family dinner,"
Tara said, laughing as they descended.
"Would seriously kill the vibe."
Meher's breath caught.
They were halfway down the staircase when she finally looked up.
And saw them.
Standing in the expansive living room, half-lit by the soft glow of golden lamps and the last blush of sunset outside, was the Roy family.
Araav Roy stood closest, a tall, clean-cut silhouette in a navy shirt and sleeves rolled casually to his forearms. He looked up just as Meher did and smiled.
Not too wide. Just enough.
There was something calm and steady in his expression, like nothing could surprise him. Like her awkward entrance, the way her hand was still in Tara's, the way she looked like she might bolt back any moment... none of it fazed him.
Next to him lounged back on the sofa, was Vivaan Roy, legs spread wide like he owned it all, grinning like he'd been waiting for this moment purely for his own amusement.
"So this is the elusive twin,"
He said as they reached the floor, voice warm with that easy sort of mischief that made you want to punch him or laugh... or sometimes both.
Meher opened her mouth, then closed it.
"She talks sometimes,"
Tara said helpfully, still holding her wrist like it was a leash.
"Mostly when everyone is not staring at her like she's a Marvel origin story."
Vivaan chuckled.
"Right. Sorry. We don't mean to be rude.... it's just, you know, kind of a big deal. You're like her family secret"
Vivaan talked alone. Araav shook his head in disbelief of his brother's brutal word exchange.
"Told you she was real,"
Tara said proudly, as if she'd personally unearthed Meher from an archaeological dig.
"Meher, this is Araav and Vivaan. Araav's the older boring one, Vivaan's the crack-head loud one."
She introduced.
"Untrue,"
Araav said, offering Meher a polite nod.
"I can be loud when necessary."
Meher gave a tiny, nervous smile.
"And that's Uncle Abhay and Aunty Anjali,"
Tara said, gesturing to the couple seated near the window elegantly, mid-laugh.
"Oh, sweetheart,"
Said Anjali, rising with a kind smile.
"It's so lovely to finally meet you. We've heard so much about you over the years."
Meher managed a quiet "thank you" as she was gently ushered to sit.
The couch felt too big. Her hands curled in her lap, eyes flicking toward the coffee table, the teacups, anywhere but the four people watching her.
"You must be exhausted,"
Abhay Roy said kindly.
"Long flight? I hope they didn't just throw you into family politics right away."
He asked with an exquisite chuckle.
"No, just emotional whiplash,"
Vivaan offered with a wink.
Meher blinked at him.
"Kidding. Mostly."
He said, smiling wider to himself.
"God, Vivaan, can you not traumatize her on day one?"
Tara burst out laughing.
"She doesn't look traumatized,"
Vivaan replied, eyes on Tara.
"Just... mildly regretting her life choices."
Meher let out a tiny breath that might have been a laugh, barely. But Tara caught it and grinned like she'd just scored a point.
"See?"
Tara said.
"She's warming up. Slowly. Like a shy hedgehog."
Tara's elbow coiled behind her neck as she sat just beside her.
Meher wanted to disappear into the couch.
Tara, on the other hand, was now talking to Anjali about a new dress design, effortlessly weaving herself into the room like she owned it.
Meher sat in the middle of all of it like a guest in her own family's house, still clutching the edge of the cushion like it might ground her.
But then... a glance.
Araav's eyes met hers again from across the room, not pitiful.
It made something shift in her chest.
And somewhere behind that wall of nerves, buried under twenty years of silence and bruised memory... Meher felt the first flutter.
---
TO BE CONTINUED! :)